


now believe that magic works

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5076607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian wears an armband, so she puts two and two together and guesses that he must be the captain. Captain of the British Quidditch team. Important indeed, if one takes an interest in those things. And maybe she should, all things considered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	now believe that magic works

Emma has never been fond of Quidditch.

Her father and brother are – both of them part of the school’s team when they were students, both of them with scars and bruises to prove it – but Emma, much like her mother, has always been more comfortable watching than playing. Her voice can get quite loud, when she put her mind to it, and she makes for a great supporter if the occasion calls for it. (There is also the slight problem of being a sore loser but, oh well.)

So when she is asked, as an Auror, to assure the security of this year’s Quidditch World Cup, Emma doesn’t think twice about it – it’s a job, and it’s no different than any other type of job she’s used to. Show up, make sure nobody hexes nobody else, arrest a few drunk teenagers if needed. Nothing more, nothing else, and the idea of getting free tickets would be excited, if the Blanchards couldn’t already afford VIP tickets.

Leo has been begging her to sneak him backstage so he can meet the players, though, so that might happen at some point during the week-end, if they’re lucky enough. She does love scoring points for the sister of the year award, after all.

“Look who the cat dragged in,” is the first thing she hears that morning, when she makes it to the stadium.

Emma spins on her heels, grinning first at the familiar voice then at the sigh of Graham Humbert in front of her, in all his British Auror glory. He hasn’t changed much since the last time she saw him – some three years ago when she was sent to Great Britain as an escort to the President of Magic’s visit in London. He grins too, and so Emma opens her arms to be crushed into a bear hug. Their friendship only lasted a few days, but it was enough for them to bond, and for Emma to be happy to see him again.

“Looking sharp as ever, Humbert.”

“I try my best,” he grins.

She rolls her eyes playfully before moving closer to Ingrid, the Head of Aurors. A map of the stadium is unfolded on the desk in front of her, and it doesn’t take long for Emma to be assigned to her position – at the main entrance for the rest of the day, to oversee younger recruits as they check bags, hats and cloaks for anything suspect or dangerous. It will make for a long, boring day, but at least she will be away from the craze – Emma pities anyone assigned to the camping site during the night, really.

The hours pass by slowly, no incident to declare – boring indeed, not that Emma really feels like complaining about that. She’ll take boring over eventful any day, if only because of her hatred of all things paperwork. Incident reports have never been her thing, so the less to fill, the better she feels about her job. She only has to check if the recruits do their job well enough, and they understand the gist of it fairly quickly, which leaves her standing to the side with her arms folded on her chest, waiting.

That is, until Leo shows up, like the overexcited puppy he’s always been. Henry is on his shoulders, and so Emma grabs her son before she raises an eyebrow at her brother, unimpressed. His grin grows only bigger, the hint of mischief to come.

“Gwen can get us backstage. It’s midday, you’re allowed to a lunch break, right?”

“Right.”

Emma didn’t even know Gwen would be there, which is kind of obvious in retrospect – not only is she one of the so-called VIPs of the day, but her scandalous boyfriend is on the American team. Of course she’s here today, and of course Leo found her to get backstage tickets. Emma rolls her eyes, both at her brother and at herself for not thinking about it sooner.

“Did you guys eat already?” she asks, tickling Henry’s tummy. He wriggles in her arms, his little laughs warming her from the inside out.

“Yeah. Mom has sandwiches and a bottle of pumpkin juice in her bag for you, though.”

“Good. Let’s go then.”

She checks with her recruits one last time, explaining that she will only be gone an hour or so, and reminding them of ways to contact her in case of emergency. Emphasis on emergency, she adds with a pointed look, before she follows her brother to the stadium. Henry decides to climb her at that moment, as so she puts him on her shoulders – someone, definitely her father, drew the American flag on his cheek, and Leo sports the same kind of makeup as well as a jersey to their team’s colours.

Which could be embarrassing, but they fit in the crowd of people, so Emma swallows down the sarcastic comment. Instead, she keeps following her brother, until they find her family deep in a conversation with Gwen. She beams up at Emma when their eyes meet, and pulls her into a hug.

“Guinevere was telling us all about working for the Department of Justice,” her mother says as she rummages through her bag to hand Emma the much needed food.

“It’s not as thrilling as it sounds, really.”

“Not as thrilling as dating _Lance Dulac_ ,” Leo adds, earning himself a couple of exasperated looks.

But Gwen only laughs, apparently used to it, before she motions for them to follow. Everything happens in a flurry after that – Leo suddenly back to his eight-year-old self, Henry pulling on her hairs so he can get down and have fun with his uncle, Gwen introducing them to her boyfriend. It makes a lot of noise, mostly from Leo socialising with the entire American team, and it leaves Emma a little dizzy and lost – this isn’t her world, this isn’t her thing. So, slowly, she walks away from the scene, leaning against the wall outside the locker room; just enough to breathe again, but still close enough to come back if something happens to Henry or if someone calls after her.

She’s washing down her sandwich with a sip of pumpkin juice when someone comes to stand next to her, and her reflexes call for grabbing the wand at her waist, just in case – old habits, and all that, but she has a scar to prove how important they are, especially when they fail you.

“No love for our team, huh?”

The accent is a dead given away but so is the outfit he wears, the red and white of England stretching across his chest. He smiles down at her, eyes kind and hair a mess, before he gives her a quick look-over, his gaze lingering a few seconds on the Auror badge she wears at her hip.

“No extra security, either.”

“I’m on my lunch break, actually,” she replies. And then, because they forced diplomacy rules into her brain, she holds her hand out, “Emma Blanchard.”

She always feels that lingering awkwardness, when she has to introduce herself. Her blood is as pure as they come, her family one of the oldest amount the white community of wizards and one of the most influent in the American wizard world. She is often judged on her name alone, and on the blood in her veins, on the reputation that comes with it. Not a bad one, thankfully, but one she has to live up to, with all the pressure that comes along.

He stares at her hand for a few seconds, before he lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Bloody hell, it’s been a while since I had to introduce myself. Killian Jones.” He shakes her hand, waits a few seconds, and then, “Doesn’t ring a bell at all?”

She shakes her head, smirks. “Should it?”

His eyes widen as he puts a dramatic hand on his chest, taking a step back. “Straight to the ego, _ouch_.”

Her smirk widens, and she guesses he must be important somehow – the kind of important that will make her brother freak out if he glances their way. Killian wears an armband, so she puts two and two together and guesses that he must be the captain. Captain of the British Quidditch team. Important indeed, if one takes an interest in those things. And maybe she should, all things considered.

“Will you be on duty during the match, then?” he asks, his voice slower and deeper and – oh no, she recognizes that type of voice. His eyes are open, his mouth curls into an easy smile, and Emma never knows how to deal with that particular brand of casual flirting. She’s the mother of a toddler, and a workaholic – being flirted at isn’t really something that happens everyday, and she’s so rusty at it it verges on ‘sad and pathetic’.

“No,” she replies, forcing herself not to blink too much. “I’ll be watching.”

“Good.” His smile widens even more. “Maybe you and the lads could join us to celebrate our victory, afterward?”

“A little cocky, don’t you think?”

(Is she flirting back? Oh Merlin.)

The smile turns into a smirk, and it looks good on him, in an infuriating way. She only just met him, but it’s easy to guess he is the infuriating kind of guy, the kind who always keeps you on your toes and who promises not another boring day in your life. Is she into that kind of things? Does she want to?

“No offense but… You guys are good at pretending to burn at the stake. Quidditch? Not so much.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes away from the wall, to check on Henry one last time before she goes back to her duties outside – she doesn’t want to know what would happen, if Ingrid finds out she was late because too busy flirting with the enemy. Still, she glances back at Killian over her shoulder, playful smile dancing on her lips.

“Impress me.”

 

…

 

She doesn’t mean for him to do it literally but – well, he does. It’s only once he’s in the air that she notices his lack of left hand, and she does remember Leo telling her about that one Quidditch player with a hook for a hand, and how impressive it was to see him on a broom. And he’s a Seeker at that, because of course he is.

He’s a Seeker, and he’s a show-off – synonyms, really. So Emma isn’t exactly surprised, during a quiet moment in the middle of the match, that he decides to fly by the VIP booth. What surprises her, though, is the way he slows down in front of her, very obviously throwing a wink and a grin her way before flying away. Her eyes widen at the sight, and she stares in front of her for a very long time, unable to understand what just happened.

That is, until Leo shakes her arm.

“Why was Killian Jones flirting with _you_?”

Ah, the joys of sisterhood.

“I don’t know. Whatever. Who’s winning?”

 

…

 

Great Britain wins.

Of course they do.

 

…

 

Emma stays in their tent long enough to put Henry to bed – he’s running on a sugar high, thanks to all the candy Leo gave him tonight – and to poke fun at her brother and father, both of them grumpy at their team’s defeat. She and her mother share an amused glance, before she gives some excuse about meeting her friends and coming back later. If anyone catches her lie, they don’t point it out, and she leaves the tent with one last glance to Henry’s silent bedroom.

The English are celebrating as loudly as they can, and it takes Emma longer than she would have expected to make her way across the camping lot. They don’t really seem to care if she is an American, all too happy to share their Firewisky and Muggle beer with her if she so wishes. Emma turns them down as fast as possible before she continues her trek back to the stadium where, she has no doubt, the same kind of celebration is happening.

She does manage to find Ruby and her girlfriend Mulan along the way, and it’s not too hard to convince them to follow her – she just has to say ‘British team’ and ‘party’ for Ruby to agree, but that’s probably because Ruby is half-drunk already. Mulan rolls her eyes, the ghost of smile on her lips, as if she didn’t expect it to go any other way.

“Emma!” is the first thing she hears when she enters the room where the team is celebrating.

His face is the first thing she sees, damp hair falling into his eyes and red high on his cheeks as he comes close to her with the biggest grin she’s ever seen. Her heart doesn’t jump in her chest, but it’s a close thing, and Emma curses herself for her weakness – pretty boys, always a weakness.

“Impressed yet?” Killian asks immediately.

She can’t help it, the eagerness in his voice makes her laugh out loud, and she presses a hand to her mouth to swallow down the sound. But he looks even more pleased instead of offended, so she guesses it’s not all that bad.

“Not really,” she says, and grins at his crunched-up nose. “But a drink would help.”

Ruby barks a laugh at the way he trips on his feet as he runs to the table they put in a corner, tons of bottles on it – she winks at Emma before tugging on Mulan’s sleeve, and both witches soon disappear into the crowd, not that Emma minds. Especially not when Killian comes back with two glasses in hand, offering one to her before he takes a sip of his own. The Firewhisky burns down her throat and settles warmly in her stomach, but she’s careful not to take a second sip already – she’s too out of her depth as it is, with a British gentleman flirting with her.

It feels weird, actually welcoming the flirting. She hasn’t met many men since Henry’s birth – since Neal, really – and she’s always been fine on her own, not seeing the problem in being single. She’s happy, with her son and her family, her job, her life. And, well, she knows that even if she flirts with Killian tonight, it won’t lead to anything since he will be back halfway across the world in a couple of days, and she’ll just remember tonight as that day she had fun flirting with a professional Quidditch player. And then some. She hasn’t decided yet.

That is, until someone turns on the music, the Weird Sisters blasting all through the room. It’s not hard to down her drink and follow Killian through the throng of people – how so many of them fit in such a small room, she’ll never know – and it’s not hard to wrap her arms around his neck, moving her hips in rhythm with the music. One night, she tells herself. One night of fun and then you go back to your life, as if nothing ever happened.

So when he leans down, she rises on her tiptoes and meets him halfway, her mouth hungry against his.

 

…

 

She wakes up with a groan, and a headache. Actually, the groan comes from the headache, like a hundred goblins playing the drums inside her skull. Emma isn’t one to drink herself into a torpor – she did, once, when she was seventeen and the girls decided to sneak out of school and celebrate Halloween in Salem. The memories are blurry but she’s pretty sure they tried to burn Ruby to the stake that night for kicks and giggles. Or something.

The memories are not blurry today and, even if they were, the soreness between her legs would be all the proof she’d need to know how the night ended. She groans once more as she opens an eye and – yes, indeed, this is not her tent and, yes, indeed, this is Killian Jones in bed with her, one protective arm around her waist, his legs tangled with hers, his – his _broom_ against her thigh. She tries not to smirk. Fails epically.

And then, it dawns on her – she slept with him. She actually slept with him, leaving her son and family behind for a quick romp in the woods with the Quidditch player. How old is she? Gosh, this is so Ruby-as-a-teenager it transcends embarrassment and becomes something else entirely.

She sits up with a “Merlin’s beard” on her lips, finding her wand in a matter of seconds and then not even bothering looking for her clothes – an Accio does that for her alright, pieces of clothing falling her her lap as she puts on her shirt and discards her bra for now. That is one walk of shame she hadn’t expected, and she really hopes it is early enough that everyone else is still asleep. She doesn’t want to explain herself to her parents. Gosh, she doesn’t want Leo to learn.

“Leaving so sound?” he asks, voice hoarse and still half-asleep.

Emma forces herself not to look his way as she puts on her shoes and grabs her cloak. The world spins a little when she stands up, but nothing a good hangover potion can’t fix – Salem definitely was worse, that’s for sure. She wraps the cloak around her shoulders, and pulls the hood above her head for good measure; she will stick out as a sore thumb outside, but at least her face will be hidden, and it is all that matters.

“Love…” he adds, when she still doesn’t answer, or even acknowledges him.

She turns to look at him, and it’s her mistake – his hair is even more of a mess than after the match, from her fingers she knows. His eyes are cloudy with sleep and desire, his lips still a little red and swollen, and – and there are several hickeys blossoming on his shoulders and neck, behind his ear. Possessiveness surges through her veins at the sight of them, at the obvious display of ‘mine’ she left along her way.

She shrugs, and smile sadly. “It was a one-time thing.”

He calls her name, but she’s already gone.

 

…

 

“Did you know Killian Jones retired last year?”

Emma doesn’t look up as she kneels in front of Henry, tightening the cloak around his neck – he has a habit of doing the knots wrong, and then the cloak would fall and they’d have to buy a new one – while half-listening to her brother’s gossips. He’s been sharing facts for what seems like hours, and Emma is kind of ignoring him by now.

She doesn’t perk up at the name. She doesn’t.

“Did he now?” she asks, pouring boredom in her voice for the sake of it.

“Yeah. Fell off his broom, four broken ribs, broken collarbone, three days at the hospital.”

“Yeah that’s great,” she replies before she stands up, grabbing Henry’s hand not to lose him in the crowd of people as they wait in line to enter the stadium. “But why are you tell me this?”

“Cause he’s standing behind you.”

Emma pats herself on the back for not spinning on her heels immediately – she’s a grown-up woman, she can show some restraint, thank you very much. No, instead she focuses on her breathing, in and out, in and out, until she doesn’t feel on the verge of a panic attack.

Chances of meeting him, even at the Quidditch World Cup (France-Russia, for Agrippa’s sake!), were close to the zero. But obviously not zero, with her luck. She hadn’t expected ever to see him again, not after their night together, not after walking away from him and regretting it immediately. But it feels like her divination teacher is laughing at her now, and never has Emma regretted more not to have the Third Eye. It could have been helpful, really.

And, well, chances of him being in the VIP booth too? Very high. There is pretending he isn’t there, and there is been perfectly not subtle about it, so she forces a smile on her lips when she finally meets his eyes – there is a scar on his cheek now, and laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. It’s been four years. It feels like a lifetime.

“Hey,” she tells him, softly.

“Hello there,” he replies – equally soft and tentative, as if not to tickle the sleeping dragon, and Emma winces in reply. This is awkward, everything about this is awkward, but she can’t get out of the situation now, can she?

“Leo said you retired.”

(Great, Emma. Good conversation.)

“Aye, indeed. Well, I was getting old anyway so…” He hesitates, then adds, “ _The Salem Times_ offered me a job for their sports section.”

“The – you’re working for _The Salem Times_?”

He smiles shyly and scratches the spot behind his ear, a gesture Emma immediately associates with nervousness. It is adorable, in a way that makes her feel a little light-headed and a lot like a teenage girl. It’s stupid, really, because she hasn’t thought much about him during the last four years, only revisiting a few fond memories when her fingers weren’t enough. She never had those “what if” and “could have been” moments, but they apparently all decided to come and slap her in the face now. Go figure.

“I am. Moved there a few months ago, actually.”

“Good. Good, that’s good.”

 

…

 

He wakes up in her tent the following morning.

As if it could have gone any other way.


End file.
